The War Is Not Won
by BloodyAlexy
Summary: Rico blames Skipper for Manfredi's death while Skipper blames him for Johnson's. But no matter what they tell theirselves, they can't hate each other; not after all they have been through. One-shot, no slash. Rated T for cursing.


The atmosphere in the room was so tense that it could create a lighting any minute. It was dark, yet there was enough of light to see in it. Only window the room had was the one on the door that allowed that amount of light. Between the grey metal walls, there stood two penguins, glaring at each other with suck looks on their eyes that created the said atmosphere.

It could be said that the penguins looked alike, but there were important differences that proved they weren't related. One of them was shorter, and his tophead was flatter than the latter's whose head was already labeled straight. Their eye colors were different too; the longer one had that blue color called "sea blue" that involved an unignorable green tone, while the shorter one's eyes were pure sapphire blue.

Only reason that they were not on each other's neck feathers was that it was probably useless. There were a lot of commandos outside to be witness, if not to come and stop them, leaving the fight unfinished.

"You killed Johnson."

"Yu kill'd Ma'fredi."

Finally some words were spoken, but the silence fell again after that; darkening the atmosphere even more that you could actually see some sparks between the sea and the sapphire.

Suddenly, the shorter one opened his beak again. "Technically, Manfredi and you killed Johnson."

"No. Ma'fredi waz jus' na've 'nough to 'rust you an' Jonson."

"_Trust us?_ I told the superiors that working with mafia was self-suicide!"

"An' ah knew 'rustin' la'frea's waz 'tupid!"

"Oh, that's what mafia calls us? 'Law freaks'? Because you can go kill anyone, rob anything and we commandos are law freaks and it's an insult, just because we try to stop you?"

The latter didn't find replying necessary. He just kept the eye contact, having to clench his flippers into fists not to cut the other's throat right there. He hated patience, but he needed to wait to go out and kill every fucking commando on his way.

(…)

Skipper almost crushed down the door as he entered the headquarters. After he slammed it behind him, he took a few breaths, but that wasn't enough. He flipped the dinner table over that cut his way, but about two seconds later, he took the table in his flippers and threw it against the wall, watching it fall to pieces.

It was good to be angry. Because with the anger he felt, he would have no room inside for the pain. Those bastards… He had told The Commander not to collaborate with the mafia. Now what had happened? The war was won… but Johnson was dead. What else mattered when Skipper lost his partner, his best friend?

First Denmark, then Johnson… He wasn't strong enough to deal with them both. He felt the desire for vengeance grew twice as his size, it felt like it would blow him up. He was going to kill Blowhole for sure, his damn lobsters had cut Johnson to death… but it was Manfredi and Rico's fault that it happened… That was what he wanted to believe.

Skipper took his head in his flippers. _I trusted them_… He had disagreed with The Commander to trust the mafia, but he had trusted two of them himself, even thought he liked them!

Now all Skipper could do was to wait to get over Johnson's loss. He could also kill Rico to relieve his lust for blood, but… No. He wasn't going to kill Rico. He wasn't going to let him rest in his grave while there was Johnson's lament as a sauce to all Skipper's past agony. He did have lost his comrade, but knowing Rico had lost his as well made him feel slightly better.

So slightly that he almost didn't even feel it… but it was there… right?

(…)

What was he going to do now?

Rico held back a sob. Outside, he looked like he didn't feel anything at all. His browline was frowned, his eyes looked as frustrated as ever, his attitude still kept warning others about his psychopathy. But inside, he was burning. He was in such a pain that he could swear somewhere in him was bleeding. There was a heavy weight on his chest, pressuring his heart and lungs so that they would stop moving.

_Manfredi…_

That stupid… What was his name again? He had a name that meant something like 'Captain'…

…_Skipper. _Of course he hadn't forgotten.

You know what; he didn't give a damn about that motherfucker's name. It was his fault that Manfredi died. In fact, technically he was the one who shot Manfredi in his chest, not one of those damn lobsters. Because it was his fault Manfredi fought defenseless.

They had clearly told him that Manfredi didn't like using automatic guns. And by not liking, they meant not being able to use them. He had ignored the meaning though. And one of the most skilled fighters Rico knew was gone in twelve seconds just like that, taking a bullet for each second.

Rico shook his head, so he wouldn't let the tears fall. Manfredi was an unusual complex of two opposite words 'psychopath' and 'naïve'; but even he was supposed to know he couldn't trust law freaks…

…yet Rico had trusted them too.

But he probably wouldn't if there wasn't Manfredi! It was unfair, Rico should have died, so Manfredi would be punished for being this naïve and be the one who was in agony after his lifetime comrade's loss.

Rico knew him since he was five, and now he had to get used to his absence while he didn't remember one single moment without him in his whole damn life. He held back another sob; he was going to see Father and talk to him. Father didn't like his men being killed unless it was his own will, and he would definitely go after revenge once he understood it was the commando penguins' fault that one of his two best subordinates was gone.

He opened front door of the mansion that was used by the Family. But the scene before his eyes wasn't what he expected.

He collapsed on the floor after his brain recognized his Famiglia's corpses under the lake of blood.

(…)

"Whole mafia is killed?"

"Why do you sound so satisfied?"

Skipper used all his effort to keep a straight face and not frown or narrow his eyes. He wasn't a disrespectful inferior.

"Excuse me for questioning, sir," Skipper started. "But mafia was our biggest problem. And it's gone. Shouldn't we all be satisfied?"

"No." The Commander's voice was monotone. "The alliance doesn't district them about their actions once the war ended. But our plan was never killing them, Skipper, jails are made for a reason. Whatever the cause is, killing twenty five penguins is a murder."

"But- Wait…" Skipper slowly comprehended The Commander's words. "Twenty five? I thought there were twenty six mafia members left after the war."

"That's why I called you here, soldier. There is a survivor, and I want you to find them."

Skipper was puzzled. "Why?"

"Blowhole killed those penguins. As far as I understood, there is a sentimental bound between the mafia members. If they know something, they may help us."

"I don't understand why Blowhole did this. The war has just ended, he has retreated."

"Some lobster corpses were found in mansion as well. Blowhole's lobsters. Apparently he wanted to be the one who struck the last. You can now leave, soldier."

Skipper still had questions to ask, but the order for him to leave was obvious. He swallowed all of them as he saluted his superior. "Yes, sir."

(…)

First Manfredi, and after less than forty eight hours, his whole Family… Rico still didn't feel his pain reduced, even after two months.

He was standing on the top of the Eiffel Tower. What he was doing in France wasn't any different from what he had been doing in past months: following a specific dolphin around.

He looked down to Paris, his sharp eyes were spotting every single detail; kissing human couples, cars passing through the streets, copulating mammals, that famous museum that he didn't care a bit glowing before his eyes… Rico hated Paris, that was for sure; but he could give the damn city a shot if he would manage to pin the dolphin down here.

Anyone would think he was insane to go after _the_ Blowhole, but he never claimed he was sane anyways. His nickname in Famiglia was 'Hurricane'; a hurricane never hesitated to follow his nature, neither did Rico. His nature was taking his loved ones' revenge when they were hurt, and he wasn't going to stop just because it was hard to defeat Blowhole. The word 'hard' was just a challenge to the 'Hurricane'; the evil genius could consider these as his last days.

"Enjoying the sight, amigo?"

He instantly recognized the voice. In less than a second, Rico was face to face with the other penguin, with the gun he just regurgitated in his flipper. Other one also had a gun in his flipper, and two penguins just stood there for a while, eye to eye, gun barrels pointed each other, the soft wind of Paris blowing through their feathers.

Then Skipper finally spoke again. "Drop the gun, Rico. Although I couldn't want anything more, I won't attack you. I just have a talk to do with you."

"Wha' talk?"

"About a very lovely dolphin." Skipper had said 'lovely' sarcastically. "It's not my will to discuss it with you, but The Commando's orders are clear."

There was a pause again. "Ah will… if yu do."

Skipper hesitated, but then he sighed. "Okay. Three seconds, and we'll drop our guns at the same time. Three…"

"…Too…"

"…One."

(…)

Not a single word was spoken. It was silent in that part of the park, and none of the penguins intended to break it. Not that it was a peaceful silence, even Skipper who was a fan of silence found it annoying. But they didn't actually want to talk, not with each other.

The duo hadn't seen each other after that day in the investigation room, and they probably were glad that way. But Skipper needed to do his duty; he had been searching for the former mafia member for two whole months.

He opened his beak, but the word he spoke wasn't about the incident after war like it was intended to. Instead, Skipper found himself asking "Why?"

"Why?" Rico repeated.

"I… I trusted you! During war, I actually believed you and Manfredi were helping us."

"We were."

"Then why did you let Johnson die?" Skipper's voice had suddenly raised.

"Ah didn' kill Jonson, nei'er did Ma'fredi."

"But it was your fault."

"An' yur faul' Ma'fredi die'too!" Rico also had snapped.

There was a stop in the conversation.

"Yes, it was," Skipper admitted, both to himself and Rico, looking down. "But I never felt guilty, because it was his and your fault that Johnson died."

"No."

"_You two_ dragged him to that trap!"

"He 'ragg' 'imsel' to dat'rap, cuz he want'd to be a fuckin' 'ero! Ma'fredi an' ah try' to stop 'im!"

Another silence that included staring and staring back. If you obviously thought you shared a hate with someone and didn't raise your fists for an unknown reason, staring each other was what you usually did.

Then Rico turned his head away from Skipper. He confessed in a whisper, but Skipper could clearly hear him. "Ah cry fo' Jonson too…"

Skipper focused his eyes on a tree, but his brain wasn't perceiving it. "And I never could be happy that Manfredi died, even though I kept telling myself I am…" Skipper's voice was slow. He hated uttering his feelings, but he just couldn't help the words that were dropping from his beak. "I even considered you as friends, but you betrayed me."

"We didn'. Yu did."

Another pause occurred between the penguins, but this time, they weren't sending each other angry glares. Now they were looking forwards, they weren't willing to face each other while having such a talk.

"No one did." It was Skipper's turn to break the silence. "No one did, did we?" He said louder. "We just wanted to blame each other."

Their eyes met again, but this time, they were filled with something other than hatred.

"We fought for each other. We got each other's back. But why did you want to blame us commandos? Why did I want to blame the mafia? Why did we hate each other when here was actually no one but Blowhole at fault?"

"Cuz ah wouldn' looz Ma'fredi an' met Jonson if…"

"…if the army and the mafia never collaborated. Then the pain wouldn't be duplicated."

"Yeah."

"But… the idea to go there was Manfredi's idea, and then Johnson decided to go by himself… He was so easy to blame." Skipper sighed. "And it was hard to believe mafia would actually call us friends. You two did. It was sort of suspicious."

"But yu were our frien'z."

"That easily?" Skipper asked. He remembered how he and Johnson got closer with Rico and Manfredi during war, although he tried his best to keep himself away from the two mafia members known as 'the Hurricane' and 'the Thunder'. After all, they had shared the same tent on duty, and during a serious war, he just couldn't help it. His eye caught the scar on Rico's beak, he had witnessed its formation; how wouldn't he, it was a scar that was taken by the psycho to protect Skipper himself at war.

The said psycho shrugged. "Ma'fredi iz rellay na've, an'…"

"And?"

Rico grinned. "An' ah rellay love feesh."

Skipper smiled at the memory of Johnson sharing the tuna with Manfredi and Rico on the first day of the pitched battle.

"I definitely will get my revenge from that maniac dolphin…" Skipper murmured, not aware of he was thinking out loud.

"Act'lly, ah waz jus' on it. Wan' to join?" Rico sent him a meaningful smile.

Skipper smirked. "So, you weren't in Paris just because you felt romantic out of sudden?"

Rico grinned again, this time even more playfully. "Ah'd be damn'd if ah left all dolp'in blood on yu."

This was how Skipper got his new partner, new best friend; and also first member of his team, but he had a long time before him until he figured that out.


End file.
